“Interview with Mr. Cliffe.  Peace assured.”  So ran one of the lines.

“Geoffrey Cliffe home again!” Lady Tranmore’s tone betrayed a shade of contemptuous amusement.

“We shall have to get on without our daily telegram.  Poor London!”

If at that moment it had occurred to her to look at her companion, she would have seen a quick reddening of Mary’s cheeks.

“He has had a great success, though, with his telegrams!” replied Miss Lyster.  “I should have thought one couldn’t deny that.”

“Success!  Only with the people who don’t matter,” said Lady Tranmore, with a shrug.  “Of what importance is it to anybody that Geoffrey Cliffe should telegraph his doings and his opinions every morning to the English public?”

We were in the midst of a disagreement with America.  A whirlwind was unloosed, and as it happened Geoffrey Cliffe was riding it.  For that gentleman had not succeeded in the designs which were occupying his mind when he had first made Kitty’s acquaintance in the Grosvilles’ country-house.  He had desired an appointment in Egypt; but it had not been given him, and after some angry restlessness at home, he had once more taken up a pilgrim’s staff and departed on fresh travels, bound this time for the Pamirs and Thibet.  After nearly three years, during which he had never ceased, through the newspapers and periodicals, to keep his opinions and his personality before the public, he had been heard of in China, and as returning home by America.  He arrived at San Francisco just as the dispute had broken out, was at once captured by an English paper, and sent to New York, with carte blanche.  He had risen with alacrity to the situation.  Thenceforward for some three weeks, England found a marvellous series of large-print telegrams, signed “Geoffrey Cliffe,” awaiting her each morning on her breakfast-table.

“’The President and I met this morning’—­’The President considers, and I agree with him’—­’I told the President’—­etc.—­’The President this morning signed and sealed a memorable despatch.  He said to me afterwards’”—­etc.

Two diverse effects seemed to have been produced by these proceedings.  A certain section of Radical opinion, which likes to see affairs managed sans ceremonie, and does not understand what the world wants with diplomatists when journalists are to be had, applauded; the old-fashioned laughed.

It was said that Cliffe was going into the House immediately; the young bloods of the party in power enjoyed the prospect, and had already stored up the ego et Rex meus details of his correspondence for future use.

“How could a man make such a fool of himself!” continued Lady Tranmore, the malice in her voice expressing not only the old aristocratic dislike of the press, but also the jealousy natural to the mother of an official son.

“Well, we shall see,” said Mary, after a pause.  “I don’t quite agree with you, Cousin Elizabeth—­indeed, I know there are many people who think that he has certainly done good.”